"It is strange, but why write of trivial matters when things of price call every moment for remark?
Forget it, my master, pardon me and farewell." Then comes the postscript, that impression which, in spite of all his knowledge, is left in Karshish's mind-- The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?
So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too-- So, through the thunder comes a human voice Saying: "O heart I made, a heart beats here! Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! Thou hast no power, nor may'st conceive of mine, But love I gave thee, with myself to love, And thou must love me who have died for thee!"-- The madman saith He said so; it is strange.
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